


Lockbox

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Prompt Fic, kriskenshin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Unlike the Holmes men before him, Sherlock’s heart was not protected by inches of steel and a twenty-digit key code, but stored in an elegant wooden lockbox gathering dust under his bed. He had no desire for it to be found. His lax attitude toward security was rather a function of the belief that no one on God’s green earth would ever desire to possess it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lockbox

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before series 3 aired, so you'll note the inconsistencies with the Holmes boys' childhood and lovely parents. I adore canon Mummy and Daddy Holmes, but these versions serve their purpose.

Like all Holmes men, Sherlock kept his heart safely locked away. It was practically the family motto, after all.  
  
“Caring is not an advantage.”  
  
Mycroft had been repeating this refrain since early days, whispering in the ear of a mop-headed Sherlock—a boy old enough to have driven off half a dozen nannies, though still young enough that such episodes were as yet unintentional.  
  
“Just look at what it’s done to Mummy,” he would add in later years, as though Sherlock needed any further proof of the devastating effects of giving one’s heart over. As if keen observation of human nature hadn’t already decided it for him. The way people carelessly bandied their organs around, flaunting their hearts like they were a decorative jewel or a mobile one might lend a friend. But Mycroft was a thorough man and left nothing to chance, even if it meant prodding at open family wounds.  
  
Father had surely warned Mummy (after all, his heart remained stored in the family safe many years after his death, on the shelf next to Mycroft’s and generations of Holmes’ before them). Yes, surely Father had warned her, but Mummy was a determined woman and a romantic one, and she had insisted. Widowed at forty with nothing but lonely time stretching ahead of her; her heart gone, buried with a man selfish enough to take what was offered but not give of his own. Sherlock grimaced when he thought of it, uncertain whether he was more disgusted by his father’s cruelty or his mother’s particular brand of martyrdom.  
  
Unlike the Holmes men before him, Sherlock’s heart was not protected by inches of steel and a twenty-digit key code, but stored in an elegant wooden lockbox gathering dust under his bed. He had no desire for it to be found. His lax attitude toward security was rather a function of the belief that no one on God’s green earth would ever desire to possess it.  
  
And he was right.  
  
At least until a slight army doctor with weathered hands and kind eyes limped into his life. A man whose own bruised heart showed the scars of one used to tugging it out of his chest and letting the world trample it. And if it infuriated Sherlock to see that vulnerable little muscle—that tiny bit of perfection—exposed so recklessly, well, he told himself it was only the principle of the thing and not an urge to protect something on which he had no rightful claim.  
  
The longer John Watson lived in 221B, the more it pained Sherlock. Watching the man come home from yet another unsuccessful date, John patting unconsciously at his chest the way he had once rubbed the phantom pain in his leg.  
  
“You’ll have nothing left if you keep giving away chunks of it,” Sherlock wanted to say. “It’ll get gobbled up by people who have neither the desire nor the capacity to appreciate you—and then what will you do?”  
  
But the detective remained silent, having been assured that his advice on the matter was patently unwelcome. Instead, he might arrange for the two of them to give a clutch of hoodlums chase through the city, or he’d be caught by an urgent need for samples found only in a secure government lab. Flushed from the danger of their mission, adrenaline coursing through his veins, John’s expression would turn from sullen to delighted as Sherlock struggled to conceal his mirroring smile.  
  
Sometimes, when John set an unrequested cup of tea at his side or exclaimed in a particularly effusive manner about his latest deduction, Sherlock suffered a prickling ache just behind his breastbone, focusing sharp attention on the hollow space therein. After these occurrences, he could often be found in his room, door locked, wiping at the dusty cover of his box and ever so slowly peering inside. Just to reassure himself—he insisted to the invisible audience mocking him—nothing sentimental about it. Always good to make sure the equipment is in working order. Satisfied, he’d then tuck his heart away, lock the box securely, and sulk through the remaining hours of the day.  
  
When the pair made themselves troublesome, when they caught the attention of the world’s only consulting criminal, Sherlock was unprepared for the fallout. He’d thought himself safe. He was arrogant, looking on with disinterest as Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of him. He smiled, thinking of the precautions he’d taken, all those lectures he’d endured, and how insufferable Mycroft would be now he was proven right. He hadn’t anticipated the feeling of cold terror that would rip through him when the lizard-eyed man set his deadly gaze on John. Hadn’t understood the way his insides clenched and seized to see Moriarty tug at John’s chest, swinging his breastplate open with all the casual disinterest of one checking the mail. How he’d choked on his horror, watching the man pull out John’s heart and squeeze, _squeeze_ , until there was nothing left but a pulpy mess splattered to the floor, John’s face a mask of stunned disbelief.  
  
“Next time, I’ll take more from Johnny-boy than his sad little heart.” His message clear, Moriarty left with a wave and smile.  
  
With more care than he’d ever shown for his own well-being, Sherlock bundled John into the ambulance and accompanied him to the hospital. There was nothing they could do about the damage at this point, and people survived broken hearts all the time, but Sherlock insisted just the same. With John sedated and falling into dreams, Sherlock left his side once, only briefly. When John woke from a full night’s rest begging biscuits and tea—comfort food—Sherlock called for the attendants and arranged for a suitable meal.  
  
“You know,” John said as he took a final sip of tea. “I don’t feel nearly as awful as I thought I might. Funny, that.”  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, expression carefully neutral. “Amazing what a stale hospital biscuit can do. You ready to go home?”  
  
He stated the question as a foregone conclusion rather than betray his fear that John might have decided he’d had enough of Sherlock Holmes, thankyouverymuch.  
  
“Guess so. Pop out for a minute so I can get dressed.”  
  
Sherlock did as asked, relieved beyond belief that John seemed so amenable. But when he heard a sharp gasp followed by a muffled clatter through the door, Sherlock knew the game was up.  
  
“What the— _Sherlock!_ ”  
  
Sherlock steeled himself, indulging in a deep breath before opening the door. John had managed to pull his trousers on, but his jumper was on the bed and the breakfast dishes had clattered to the floor. John’s chest was open, his gaze focused hard on the detective.  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“I think that should be obvious, John.” If these were the final words he exchanged with the man, he hoped to maintain a professional distance. No use letting John see him cry.  
  
“Sherlock, is this—?” He drew in a breath, eyes flicking down and then up. “Is this your heart?”  
  
Sherlock swallowed, suddenly uncertain. He pictured Mummy, the way she’d looked in Father’s final days. Remembered the way she’d refused all of Father’s attempts to return her heart. How she’d insisted it was his to keep. At the time, Sherlock had thought it a stupid gesture, so unbelievably sentimental and shortsighted.  
  
He understood it now, looking at John. He owed the woman an apology.  
  
“It’s yours John. Please. Take it.”  
  
John shook his head, his hand hovering over the untouched organ. “I can’t. Sherlock, you’ve spent your whole life keeping this safe.”  
  
Still, he didn’t take it out, and Sherlock read more in that gesture than was perhaps wise.  
  
“It was useless in that box, John.” He dared a step forward. “It has a home now. Best one I can imagine.”  
  
John hesitated a moment, searching his friend’s face, reading what? Sherlock couldn’t guess. Hope, perhaps. Dedication? Faith in something larger than himself? Satisfied, John nodded once, a curt bob of his head that closed the matter. 

“I guess I can hold it for you for a little while.”  
  
Sherlock’s smile blossomed as John took his hand.  
  
“Or maybe we could share.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kriskenshin's fic challenge: http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/68919227833/ask-fic-prompt-daily-mini-challenge-tonights


End file.
